


There and Back Again

by Frumpologist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Pining, Post-Hogwarts, Sexual Content, alcohol use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:27:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24653074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frumpologist/pseuds/Frumpologist
Summary: At the end of 8th year, Hermione left England to pursue higher education. However, England wasn’t all she’d left behind; when she returns for her best friend’s wedding, old feelings resurface and she must make a decision: rekindle an old flame or take an offer for her dream job in France.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott/Harry Potter
Comments: 30
Kudos: 352





	There and Back Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [In_Dreams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/In_Dreams/gifts).



> Happy, happy birthday to a wonderful friend with a gorgeous heart and dope AF soul - In_Dreams, you are incredible and I'm so excited to write you some Dramione for your special day! I know I'm a couple of days early (I was too excited and couldn't stop myself) but I hope that this little thing brings a smile to your face. I love you so much, friend! 
> 
> A massive thank you to my amazing beta, Lunamionny. You make me better and I adore you. <3
> 
> The title of this story comes from Tolkien's The Hobbit - I was not clever enough to come up with the phrase on my own. I own nothing recognizable.

Hermione Granger was perfectly fine, despite what the tabloids would lead people to believe. No one with an ounce of sense would take the gutter press seriously—or so she thought. One step onto the bustling London street from the Westminster tube station proved her wrong. A small crowd formed around her and cameras flashed in her face. She held tightly onto the handle of her luggage and pulled it along as she shouldered through the gathering crowd, ignoring their questions and, frankly, rude shouts about leaving England when it had needed her brilliance the most.

It took her a solid five minutes to lose them all, winding through people as they walked to and from their jobs and tourist traps. Once she was in the clear, she ducked into a restaurant’s loo and stared at herself in the mirror while she caught her breath and calmed her racing heart.

“Horrible idea,” she grumbled at her reflection as she tried to tame the wild curls around her face. “What the hell am I doing here?”

Not much about her had changed in five years; her hair was still chaotic, her eyes were still lined with purple bruising, and her lips were pulled into an ever-present frown. With a huff, she withdrew her wand of vine wood and swirled it in measured, exact circles while silently incanting the transfiguration spells she’d memorized during her eighth year at Hogwarts. When the magic fizzled, the woman looking back at Hermione from the mirror was not herself any longer—she was blonde, and though nothing could be done about the frizzy mess of hair, it was sheltered beneath a beautifully patterned headscarf. Her eyes were hidden behind wide sunglasses, and her lips were plumper, painted with pink gloss she’d normally not be caught dead wearing. Little changes were enough to hide plain, mousy Hermione Granger from the relentless media that hounded her into hiding.

Hermione stepped tentatively out of the restaurant and glanced in both directions. No media, no cameras, no demanding crowd. She sighed and then began her journey in heels that were too uncomfortable and a skirt that blew around her legs as the wind picked up. She probably looked quite ridiculous with her sunglasses on when the sky was overcast, but better strangers think her odd than the tabloids corner her into discussing what had brought her back to England after all these years.

She hated hiding behind a disguise, especially as England had always been her home, until she’d received the opportunity of a lifetime to study abroad after Hogwarts. But now, well—she was back and trying to decide whether England was still home or if she’d take the job offer from Madame Maxime to teach at Beauxbatons. Madame Maxime had given her the weekend to decide, which was perfect timing because there was an important engagement to attend in England—Harry was finally making an honest man out of the enigmatic Theodore Nott; she wouldn’t miss what Theo had dubbed ‘The Wedding of the Century’ for anything.

The rest of her journey to the Ministry of Magic was uneventful, but she wasn’t silly enough to remove her disguise until she’d knocked on Harry’s office door and ensured he was the only Auror present in the room. He blinked at her as she barged past him, ripping the scarf from her head and the glasses from her face.

“Er, Miss…?” Harry kept hold of the doorknob, but Hermione watched as his free hand slid to the wand holstered at his hip. “We don’t take civilian complaints here. You’ve got to see one of the deputies for that. I can show you—”

“It’s me, you twat.” Hermione cast a non-verbal spell and cancelled the disguise; her bushy hair was back to drab brown and her face was as plain and unimpressed as ever.

“Oh.” Harry laughed a little awkwardly, as his shoulders shook and he closed the door. They shared a brief, tight hug as he offered her a seat. “Right. I knew that—the hair should have given it away.” He gestured around his head, far wider than her hair could feasibly grow. “Still haven’t found a spell to fix it?”

Closing her eyes and counting silently to five, Hermione situated herself in one of Harry’s uncomfortable chairs and crossed her legs. “Obviously. Fairly certain I was cursed as a child.”

Harry took a seat behind his desk and leaned forward on his elbows. “Cursed...to have curly hair that can’t be fixed? Not, say, cursed to face dangerous situations your whole life, or cursed with a horcrux living inside you, or—” He seemed to consider how her scowl was deepening before licking his bottom lip and changing topics. His mouth broke out into a wide grin. “It’s so good to see you. I’m glad you’re here.”

“What sort of best woman would I be if I didn’t show up for the wedding?” A genuine smile overtook her face as Hermione’s shoulders finally relaxed. “By the way, your wedding has sold out every available affordable room in magical London. Everywhere else wants an obscene amount of galleons that I just don’t have. There’s nowhere to stay for your fancy wedding with half of the wizarding world attending.”

Harry grimaced, cheeks turning pink as his eyes looked anywhere but at her. “Theo’s a bit...extravagant, to be honest. Wanted to play up the Boy Who Lived Twice for maximum exposure to his— _ our _ —special day.” He finally found her amused gaze and offered her the barest hint of a smile. “We couldn’t be more different, but I love him, Hermione.”

She wasn’t an  _ entirely  _ callous person; her insides melted at his earnest admission and she positively beamed at him.

There had been a time when she’d felt similarly for someone, when she’d believed that trying to overcome the long odds against them was a fight she was willing to have. But that was a long time ago and so much had changed since then. Sighing wistfully, Hermione blinked back her memories. “Would it be too much of a bother if I stayed at yours over the weekend? I promise to be out of your hair before the honeymoon.”

“That’d be brilliant!” Harry hopped up from his chair and settled himself against the edge of his desk in front of Hermione. “Listen, there’s a lot going on at Grimmauld this weekend and I know you don’t like surprises, so you should know that, er...there are more people living with us.”

Hermione waved him off, rolling her eyes. “Ronald and I will be fine. That’s been over for years, and we’ve both moved on with our lives.”

“Not Ron. He’s staying at Luna’s flat now,” Harry said, and his eyes danced away from hers again. “There’s been some—” His hands flew to his hair, messing up the already chaotic chunks even more. “—contention between, er…You see, over the past couple of years, I’ve rented a room to—aw, bugger it.”

“Oh, out with it Harry.” Hermione uncrossed and recrossed her legs, lifting her chin as she watched the way his face crumpled with discomfort.

A long breath escaped him and then he rushed the words, as if speaking so quickly would somehow stop Hermione from hearing them. “Malfoy, alright. It’s Malfoy. I’m living with Draco Malfoy.”

“Okay.” Blinking slowly, Hermione waited for him to continue explaining why living with Draco Malfoy warranted such a tortured admission, but there was only silence for several moments before Harry spoke again, his voice agitated.

With his hands flying out in front of him, Harry huffed. “Well? Aren’t you going to have a go at me about it? The former Death Eater shacking up with The Boy Who Lived and all that rot  _ The Prophet _ is spewing? You don’t have to be nice just because it’s my wedding weekend, you know? Draco was worse to you than any of us, so I won’t blame you if you’d rather stay with the Weasleys or—”

She couldn’t hold it in, and truly, she tried. Laughter fell from her lips and as her fingers covered her mouth, her body bent at the waist and she rested her head against Harry’s knee. The tremors of her amusement shook her shoulders, earning an irritated sigh from Harry.

“Want to share what’s so funny?”

“Sorry, sorry.” Popping her head up, her throat tightened with more laughter when she met Harry’s concerned stare. “Draco and I put all that behind us ages ago—we were very nearly friends when we finished Hogwarts.”

Harry’s mouth dropped open, pinching his brow as he flicked his gaze around her face. “You what? Why didn’t you ever tell me that?”

Her throat dried instantly, and the amusement she felt faded away under his penetrating eyes. She cleared her achy throat and looked anywhere but at Harry. “It was a long time ago and, quite honestly, you wouldn’t have understood back then.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No,” Hermione said sadly, settling herself back into the chair. “No, it’s not.”

* * *

Part of Hermione was relieved that she hadn’t run into Draco anywhere in Grimmauld on her first night. She wasn’t so lucky the next night, however, as Harry and Theo hosted a mutual stag night in their home. Old classmates she’d come to truly care for, who she hadn’t seen in five years, had all gathered together to celebrate the grooms, and to have a proper party. Even Hermione found comfort with an entire bottle of wine she’d scavenged from Theo’s (well stocked) cellar.

Mingling with their friends was lovely, but she’d become overwhelmed at how everything had changed since she’d left for France. While everyone was setting roots down all over the United Kingdom, Hermione was still pondering what her future would hold. It set her nerves on edge whenever someone would ask what her plans were and when she was coming home. England had always been home…until her parents’ memories had been lost indefinitely and she’d carved out a place for herself researching at Beauxbatons.

So, when it became too much, and before she could find herself alone with a certain blond, who looked far too fit in his black button-down and grey trousers—Merlin, she’d missed the sight of his lithe frame in fitted clothes—Hermione sneaked off to the cordoned-off sitting room and sat down at the piano bench with a long-stemmed wine glass and bottle in hand. She was quite a way through the bottle and poking at keys at the piano when a polite cough interrupted her, causing her hands to splay clumsily over the keys and make a terrible racket with them.

“You’re terrible at the piano, Granger.”

That voice, one she hadn’t heard in so long, sent chills up her spine and pooled crimson at her cheeks. Hermione straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin as she turned towards its owner .

“Much better than you, if I remember, Malfoy.”

His deep chuckle was like a balm to her nerves as he sidled up next to her and set his tumbler of whiskey on the top of the piano. “You’re back from France.”

“Just for the weekend,” she said with a tremor in her voice. “Madame Maxime offered me a position at Beauxbatons, to start in August.”

Something dark passed through his silver eyes, but it was blinked away as his lips lifted at the corners. “Rumor has it you were offered a fellowship at the Ministry here, too.”

She hummed in acknowledgment and then took a fortifying gulp of wine. Jabbing a finger rather indelicately onto a key, Hermione tried to ignore the way his gaze caused heat to pool in her belly. “I haven’t played in a very long time. Do you remember the melody we wrote for the first anniversary—after Voldemort?”

As usual, Draco twitched at the name. “Wish you’d stop saying his name,” he said as he placed his fingers just so on the piano. “And of course I remember—the question is, do you? You’re nearly two bottles of wine in, if I’m not mistaken.”

Hairs stood on the back of her neck; he’d been watching her all night. The thought caused a riot in her stomach, as if a Niffler were searching for gold within it. “I’m celebrating. Can’t a girl have a drink to toast her best friend and his longtime love’s imminent marriage??”

A laugh burst from his lips, bold and sweet, and warmed Hermione from the inside out. Draco’s fingers moved over the keys slowly, methodically, as he played a familiar song. His shoulder brushed against hers, encouraging her to place her fingers and join him. So, she did; clumsily and not at all as confident as she’d once been, but as they played on, her movements became more sure and she lost herself in the music they made together.

Somehow he’d moved impossibly close to her, the heat of his body rolled over her in waves and even the faint spice of whiskey on his breath invaded her senses and drove her mad with growing desire. As the last note rang through the room, Hermione wondered what she could do to keep him from leaving her, whilst simultaneously wishing he’d slip off into the night so that she could avoid him until she left for France.

Draco’s long fingers curled around his glass, so Hermione followed his lead and grabbed her own glass of wine. They watched one another sip their drinks, maintaining intense eye contact as their throats constricted around their preferred poisons—he always chose some kind of expensive spirit and she always chose wine. When Draco lowered his glass, eyes sparkling and lips wet with whiskey, Hermione drew in a deep breath and held it.

“Glad to have you back.”

“I’m not back.”

His face was so close, eyes ducking to her lips and tracing the deep bow before flicking up to her gaze again. Hermione found herself leaning in, drawn to him like a moth to a flame, but before their lips could touch—in what could possibly be the most colossal mistake—Theo crashed into the room, slurring something about ‘marrying a real, live hero’, and immediately passed out on the floor.

“Better take care of that,” Hermione whispered, a hair’s breadth away from Draco’s lips.

Draco smirked, grabbed his drink, and slipped from the bench. “Best man’s work is never done. Night, Granger.” 

* * *

“No one told me that part of a best man’s duties would be cooking a hangover brunch.” Hermione whisked an obscene amount of eggs with far too much intensity as she glared at Harry, who had his head resting in his hands at the small kitchen table. “You’re in your mid-twenties and don’t know how to cook a proper breakfast?”

“I know how to cook,” Harry said through clenched teeth, massaging his temples as if the very act of speaking caused him pain. “If it were up to Theo, all we’d eat is takeaway.”

“Doesn’t say much for your cooking skills then, does it Potter?”

The way Draco sauntered into the kitchen, with his pajama bottoms slung low on his hips and that ridiculously tightly fitted cotton tee-shirt, caused Hermione to slosh raw egg down the front of her chemise. Draco clearly didn’t miss the way her gaze trailed a slow path from his hips to his eyes, and smirked as she cursed under her breath.

“You’re making an absolute mess of this, Granger.” Draco stole the clear mixing bowl right out of Hermione’s hand and began whisking the eggs. “A bit distracted this morning?”

Her eye twitched under the strain of the glare she threw his way, but he was entirely unaffected, merely chuckling and turning away from her. And, despite knowing it was a terrible idea, Hermione’s gaze landed right on Draco’s backside and watched as he moved about the kitchen with a skill she’d never have imagined him to have.

“Are you…” Theo stood just behind her and Hermione lifted her chin over her shoulder to catch his eye. He cocked his head to the side, eyes trained where Hermione’s had been, and gasped. Mortified, Hermione knocked her elbow into his stomach. “Oi, I’m not the one staring at his arse like a horny little minx.”

“She’s what?” Harry lifted his head from his hands, jaw dangling open as he stared at Hermione.

“Staring at my arse like a horny little minx, Potter. Keep up.” Draco tossed a quick wink in Hermione’s direction—looking far too pleased with himself at the no doubt obvious sight of her face turning bright red—and carried on as if he caught her objectifying him every day.

Bloody hell, she was going to melt into the wooden floor. “I wasn’t—”

“I stare at Boy Wonder’s arse the same way. I know what a horny little minx looks like, Granger. I am one myself, ninety-nine percent of the time.” Theo patted her awkwardly on the top of the head, shook off the rogue hairs that wound themselves around his fingers, and took a seat next to Harry.

“Hermione…” Harry licked the corner of his lips and raked his fingers through his hair as he surveyed her. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Do you  _ fancy _ Malfoy?”

Everything stopped. Draco’s shoulders were stiff and squared; Theo’s dark eyes met hers across the table. Her chest and face flushed as she dragged a ragged breath through her nose. The kitchen vibrated with an impatient energy. Pushing herself from the table, Hermione opened her mouth to answer, decided that saying nothing was preferable to lying or the truth, and snapped her mouth closed before dashing from the kitchen. Brunch be damned.

When she was safely behind her bedroom door, Hermione slid down its length and pulled her knees to her chin. She’d fancied Malfoy five years ago and she was a fool to herself if she refused to admit that she fancied him now.

But it was hopeless.

She was leaving in two days. Leaving him  _ again _ , and it had been so hard the first time that she’d nearly cancelled the whole trip. She couldn’t let herself fall into that agonizing situation again—she couldn’t. And so, Hermione hid herself away for the rest of the day, refusing to allow herself to be alone with Draco Malfoy for even a second.

  
  


* * *

Elegant was an understatement. She’d barely set one heel into the grand ballroom and she was stunned. Not in the red-light-to-the-chest curse way that gave the Ministry so much trouble these days, but the make-your-jaw-drop-and-heart-seize kind of way. Overhead were high cathedral ceilings bewitched to mimic the dark, velvet night sky. Underneath her feet, the white porcelain floor made the room look like a white sandy beach at midnight. On every row of seats, twinkling fairy lights danced amidst bunches of lilies and navy blue linens covered the chairs.

Hermione’s eyes fell on the marble arch where Harry and Theo would be married and her heart swelled. After all the years of heartache and horror, Harry would finally get his happily ever after. Just as a smile slipped onto her lips, a hand curled around her shoulder and spun her around.

She canted her chin up, craning her neck to look into Ron Weasley’s deep, blue eyes. He grinned at her and pulled his hand away from her shoulder. “We’ve got a problem with Harry—I think he’s gone mad and you’re better at these things than I am.”

Before he could lead her to Harry’s changing room, Hermione hurried off, lifting her dress well over her heels so she wouldn’t trip as she charged forward through the ballroom. She pushed open the first door she arrived at but came to an abrupt, silent stop. Two pairs of eyes—one soft brown and quizzical, and the other intense pools of molten silver—stared back at her expectantly. Her mouth was dry and she swallowed hard around a knot in her throat as her eyes wandered a path from Draco’s dark trousers to his bare torso, hard chest, and sharp clavicle.

Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth as she tried to think of anything at all to say. Theo looked away first with a wistful little grin as he arranged his bow tie in the mirror. Draco’s gaze didn’t waver, though, and crimson heat clawed its way up Hermione’s throat until it pooled in her cheeks.

“Hi,” she rasped, then cleared her throat and tried again. “I’m looking for Harry’s room—seems it’s changed since we arrived?”

“Next room,” Theo grunted over his shoulder. “This one had better lighting and since Boy Wonder doesn’t give a toss about his appearance, I kicked him out. While you’re with him, can you fix that wreck he calls hair?”

“Right.” Hermione hadn’t broken eye contact with Draco; both had remained still. She wanted to know what was going through his head, what he was thinking as his eyes burned a trail from her open-toe shoes to the tasteful display of cleavage framed by her wild curls. He didn’t speak a word, though, and so she bid them goodbye.

When she stormed into Harry’s room, breathless and flushed, Hermione closed the door and leaned all her weight against it. Closing her eyes, she took steady, deep breaths until her heart rate no longer mimicked hummingbird wings.

“You okay?” Harry’s jittery voice broke through her silence. “Ron said you went to Theo’s room. Is he okay? Is he having second thoughts? Do you think he’ll ditch me?”

Hermione’s eyes shot open and she pushed herself from the door. With careful, wobbly steps forward, she shook her head and a light laugh filled the space between them. Knocking Ron aside gently, Hermione took Harry’s tie in her hands and began to knot it.

“He loves you,” she said soothingly, crossing the fabric and letting it slide through her fingers as she fortified herself with a steady breath. “He wouldn’t ever ditch you. Theo’s absolutely in love with you.”

Harry winced and ran a hand through his hair, messing it up worse than ever. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?” He glanced between Ron and Hermione, a notch forming between his brows. “I’m no good at this—the love stuff. I don’t know how to...I’ve never felt like this before.”

“I’m going to ignore the fact you’ve dated my sister.” Ron laughed, but was silenced with a cutting glare from Hermione. “I’ll just…leave you to it, shall I?”

When they were alone, Hermione finished tying the knot. “Everyone falls in love for the first time and worries they’re not doing it right, Harry. Theo’s not going to leave you just because you love him the way you know how.”

“It’s just that when I was growing up, I didn’t...my aunt and uncle weren’t…” He seemed so lost, so worried, and it clenched Hermione’s heart.

She took his stubbly face between her hands and forced him to look at her. “You deserve this—Theo, the fancy wedding, the happily ever after. You deserve to build a peaceful and extraordinary life with him. He’ll love you even when you don’t know what you want that life to look like, and he’ll love you even if you irritate the hell out of him.” They both laughed as her hands fell from his face. “So, let him love you and do your best to show him you love him in the ways you know how.”

Harry stayed quiet for a moment as Hermione preened at his hair and tried to get it to stay flat. “You deserve that too, you know? The happily ever after.”

Humming her agreement, she smiled. “It takes some of us longer to know what that looks like.”

“Judging by the way you and Malfoy look at one another—”

“Don’t.” Hermione placed her hand over his mouth, shaking her head. “I’m taking a job at Beauxbatons. There’s no place for me here anymore.”

“But—”

“Let Theo love you. And let me leave tomorrow knowing that you’re happy.” She stepped back with a sad smile and admired the work she’d done on his tie and his hair. “Perfect. Now go, and don’t worry about me.”

* * *

  
  


The ceremony was beautiful, but Hermione could hardly focus on the cheeky vows exchanged between Theo and Harry. The source of her distraction was one tall, lean, and smouldering Draco Malfoy who seemed to only have eyes for her. As the handfasting came to its conclusion, Draco’s tongue darted out, moistening his bottom lip as his eyes dipped to the slit of her dress that travelled all the way up to the top of one thigh.

The things that tongue had done when they’d been sneaking around Hogwarts, the way he’d look at her when she came apart under said tongue, all flooded her thoughts and burned hot in her belly. She tried to gesture for him to cease his incessant staring, but couldn’t stop the coy smile that toyed with her lips.

At the reception, when everyone had started dancing, Hermione sat and watched on with her legs crossed and hand curled around the long stem of her wine glass. Draco threw himself into a seat next to her. His gaze lingered on her chest before he downed the two fingers of whiskey in his glass.

“Come dance with me, Granger.” Draco’s lips were at her ear and his warm breath sent chills down her spine.

“Hm?” She turned her head, so his mouth was at her cheek. 

He held a hand out to her. “I said, come and dance with me.” 

Butterflies erupted in her belly as she took his hand and he walked her onto the dancefloor. He pulled her close, wrapped his hands around her waist, and led them through a sweet melody—one they’d played on the piano together at Hogwarts. It was so saturated with memories of the two of them that she wondered if he’d planned it. As they rotated slowly in place, Harry caught her eye. He smiled and made a gesture as if telling her to lay her head on Draco’s shoulder, but she shook her head. No, she couldn’t let this be more than what it was: two friends sharing a dance at a wedding. Harry rolled his eyes and focused his attention back on Theo.

“You look beautiful tonight,” Draco whispered against her temple, slipping his long fingers up and down her spine as they spun slowly around. “You look beautiful every night.”

“You’re just saying that to get into my knickers,” she said, playfully rolling her eyes.

“You and I both know that’s not how to get into your knickers.” That grin, the one that sent her heart careening into a right mess of flutters, crawled up his face. His fingers tightened their hold on her waist. “Do you  _ want  _ me to try?”

_ Merlin, yes _ , she thought, losing herself in the burn of his stare. Her fingers wound in the silky fine threads at the nape of his neck and she thought—just for a brief moment—about planting her lips against his. She remembered how he’d tasted all those years ago, the sound of his strained breaths as he’d kissed her longer and deeper as their tryst became less about sex and more about the heady desire they’d shared. Licking her lips, Hermione dropped her gaze to his and all the breath chased from her lungs.

Just one more kiss—one final goodbye. One moment of weakness to tide her over, rather than the memories of the heart-wrenching agony of saying goodbye that last time. She could do it, kiss him and walk away. She’d done it once before.

His voice was a growl, forcing her eyes to his again. “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to have you right here on the dance floor.”

The words—so similar to those he’d spoken in her ear the first night they’d fumbled around in the library in their eighth year—woke something inside her that cleared the muddy waters of desire in her mind. Shaking her head, Hermione yanked herself from his arms and stared resolutely at the floor between their feet.

“I have to go; I’m sorry. Give Theo and Harry my love, please.” And with that, she turned on the spot and Apparated straight into her room at Grimmauld.

Shagging Draco would come with the same heartbreaking consequences as it had when she’d left after her NEWTs, and Hermione wasn’t certain she could go through that all over again. She sat on the edge of her bed, kicked off her heels, and rubbed circles at her temples. If she didn’t stay and say goodbye to Harry before returning to France, he may never forgive her, and it was the only thing that kept her from Portkeying back to her home in Paris that night.

Hermione startled as a loud crack of Apparition broke through the silence. Snapping her head up, she came face to face with Draco, whose eyes were dark and lips turned down. He snarled as he approached her, his magic vibrating off him like the tremors of an earthquake.

“So you’re just going to leave again—no goodbye, not allowing me the simple courtesy of telling you that I’d wish you’d stay?” He stood tall in front of her, towering over her as he glared down into her wide eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off immediately. “No. You don’t get to dictate how I feel about you leaving  _ again _ . Not one bloody owl in five years, Granger—not one. You disappeared, and I wasn’t ever given a chance to say that I fucking love you.”

Shooting to her feet, nearly knocking Draco back, Hermione squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “You don’t love  _ me _ —you love  _ fucking  _ me. And yes!” She held her hand up to stop him talking. “I also loved fucking you, but—”

Draco didn’t bother to hear the end of her argument; his lips crashed onto hers, teeth knocking together, but she ignored the moment of pain in favor of whimpering against his mouth and parting her lips to deepen the kiss. His fingers slid through her hair and knotted in the roots at the base of her skull. Tilting her head just so, his tongue swept into her mouth and drew a long, desperate moan from her throat. He had her pressed back into the mattress before she even knew what was happening and settled himself between her legs. Desperate to see him, Hermione clawed at his tie and tossed it to the side, then made quick work of plucking open the buttons of his shirt and shucking it off his shoulders.

Draco’s lips were everywhere; her mouth, her earlobe, her jaw, her neck. He sucked and nipped at her throat while his hands trailed along her body and rearranged her dress around her hips. Fingers caressed the edge of her lacy underwear and she preened, lifting her hips until she felt his bulging erection against her core. Hermione grabbed the sides of his head and forced his lips back to hers as he kicked off his trousers.

The feel of his fingers sliding through her wet folds chased delight along her nerves. It sent faint but accumulating shocks of ecstasy skittering along her skin. His lips moved to her ear and he nipped at the lobe before breathing hot and heavy against it.

“Now’s a good time to tell me to stop if you—”

She didn’t. Instead, her hand found his erection, lined it up, and jerked her hips so that he slipped inside her. They both groaned; it had been five years since she’d felt so close to the brink of madness. Draco snapped his hips forward and dropped his head to her shoulder.

They made love quietly; only the sound of their heavy breathing filled the room. Hermione touched him anywhere she could put her hands, trailing her blunt nails along his skin and earning the most delightful hiss. His hips stuttered, and she moaned—so close to her climax, but not quite there. Slipping out and down her body, Draco tore her underwear to pieces before he clamped his lips over her sex and flattened his tongue against her clit.

In the throws of her orgasm, Draco sat back on his haunches and pulled Hermione to him. With a skillful maneuver, she straddled his thighs and took him inch by glorious inch, clenching around him and riding out her climax as he whispered how perfect she fit around his cock.

There was a familiarity in sex with Draco Malfoy; he knew every place to touch, every bit of sensitive flesh to lick, and the delicious speed at which to rail into her. As her second orgasm unexpectedly crashed over her, he wrapped his arms around her waist and growled against her breast as he fell over the edge.

They stayed wrapped up in one another, silently coming down from what Hermione believed to be the best sex she’d had with Draco. Her breathing slowly returned to normal, the bright bursts of stars behind her eyes faded away, and she was left in a quiet panic about what she’d done and what it meant.

Draco lowered her back to the bed and fell to her side, his hands not leaving her skin and blazing a trail along her sensitive nerves. When he spoke, it was breathless and gravelly. “Don’t leave. Take the job at the Ministry and stay with me, Granger.”

“Draco…” Hermione closed her eyes, regret lancing itself through her heart. When she opened her eyes again, she found him gazing at her with a hopeful pull to his lips that slowly faded into a frown.

“Things have changed since you’ve been gone,” he said, fingers dancing along her throat to her jaw and tilted her chin toward him. “ _ I’ve _ changed.”

Her nostrils flared and she swatted his hand away. “So have I. England isn’t my home anymore, and I’m not staying—not for you, not for anything. I belong in France, and I want to be there. It’s home to me now; this weekend has shown me that. I’m sorry, Draco, but you’re just going to have to accept that and move on.”

The shadow of the man Draco had once been flickered in his eyes, but where he once would have made a cutting remark, he spoke almost teasingly as his fingers started to glide along her skin again. “Would you be amenable to my moving on tomorrow rather than tonight?”

Hermione held his gaze for several moments. A slight smile curled her lips as his fingers moved closer and closer to the apex of her thighs. “Under one condition.”

“Name it,” he whispered, lips descending to her throat.

“Don’t ask me to stay again.” Because she wasn’t sure that she could say no to him again—it broke her heart to cleave herself from his life for a second time.

He didn’t speak again, didn’t agree or disagree, or show any sign at all that he’d heard her request. Instead, Draco covered her body with his again, and kept her awake until the early hours of the morning, teasing and throwing her over the edge of ecstasy more times than she’d dare admit to him.

* * *

Ordino was the perfect little village; reminiscent of Hogsmeade’s quaint close-knit feel. Set in the mountains, it was a short walk from Beauxbatons. Hermione could live in the village rather than at the academy which suited her perfectly. There was a cafe with amazing croissants and several magical shops for everyday needs. She spent her entire first day shopping for things for her flat and the first week arranging everything to make it feel like home.

It had been a whole week since she’d given into weakness and slept with Draco, and a full week where he’d barely left her thoughts. She purposefully refused to hook up her Floo network until the thoughts passed because she didn’t trust herself not to make contact with him. It would never work; they were truly in two different worlds, separated by land and sea; even most magic couldn’t get them to one another simply.

Hermione sat at her breakfast nook with a croissant and picked at it while she sipped tea and read through the paperwork Madame Maxime had owled to her in advance of the school term. The history of Beauxbatons was rich, and reading through it did wonders to take her mind off England and the wizards she’d met there.

The first time she heard a knock on her door, Hermione shrugged it off. No one knew who she was except for the professors at the academy, and she couldn’t imagine any of the villagers would need anything from the new witch on the block. But the second time she heard the knock, Hermione knit her brows and tidied her paperwork before plodding to the door.

“Hello, I—Draco!”

Her forehead nearly crashed into his chin, but Draco pushed a hand to her shoulder just in time. “Granger. Good morning.”

“What are you doing here?” Stepping away, she lifted her chin and clamped her hand around the doorknob to keep herself grounded—her brain was trying to get her to do ridiculous things like throw herself against Draco and snog him senseless against the door.

Draco’s gaze flitted around her face, taking an extra second on the disaster she called her hair, and then his lips lifted at the corners. “England isn’t home for me anymore, either.”

“Well that’s preposterous.” She scoffed and pinched her lips. “You have a good job, you have a whole support system, your parents—”

“I don’t have  _ you _ ,” he said, rolling his eyes toward the sky. When they dropped back to her, they were bright and sincere. “All of it means nothing without you, Granger. It feels empty without you there. Celebrating the wins without your cheesy smile and that sexy little dance you do when you’re excited about something—”

“I don’t do a dance when I’m excited.” She was fighting off the aforementioned cheesy smile and failing miserably.

“When you scored every NEWT?” Draco lifted his hands to his chest and hopped from foot to foot, mimicking the same moves Hermione made when she’d gotten her NEWT results. Reaching out, she swatted him on the chest, and he caught her hand tight in his. “Please, Granger. Let’s give this a real chance—here in France.”

“Draco…” His name hung in the air between them as Draco lifted their hands to his chest and crowded her space. “You’d have to give up so much, and we don’t even know if this would work.”

“But we can try, can’t we?” Rubbing his thumb over the soft skin of her hand, Draco ducked his chin down bringing them eye level. “Let me love you, Granger.”

Hermione’s eyes widened a fraction before Draco’s lips pressed onto hers. All the nights in the library, hidden in the stacks, came soaring back to the forefront of her mind. Lifting herself on her tiptoes, she deepened the kiss and sank into the warmth of his embrace as Draco guided them through the doorway and kicked her door shut behind him.

As he pressed her against it and tangled his fingers into the roots of her hair, he growled “finally” and claimed her lips once more.


End file.
